


worcester city

by readeption



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-05 11:37:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11577288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readeption/pseuds/readeption
Summary: (love, danger, and mutually assured destruction)meek Nord Torben succumbs to his doom in Raldbthar, only to be rescued by a reticent assassin. Luric stays on his mind for weeks afterwards before finally coming to Whiterun, and sweeping Torben up in something much bigger and more powerful than himself.





	1. the something-else

His hopes of reaching Raldbthar by nightfall, and Whiterun by morning, are dashed by a fierce storm. It rolls bright. It lashes rain against the city walls. He burrows deeper into his bed. Deep booms of thunder sound outside. He has never liked thunder, and he has always hated _omens_.

Tomorrow, he promises himself. (He has made the same promise every night for a month.)

He breaks his fast with bread and cheese. The cheese sticks to his teeth. He licks at them as he dresses in the quiet of his room, the cold as unwelcome as ever and the day ahead daunting.

He leaves Windhelm. On the path west, there is a fallen tree, its trunk gutted. The remnant juts out, a dark half-cylinder against the swell of the hill. The fallen half lies clear across the road, shining with frozen rainwater.

He steps over it, taking care to avoid piercing his leather boots. There are splintered shivers of wood scattered through the snow. It’s cold. It’s always fucking cold.

His mind is blank with thirst and tiredness as he walks. His legs burn with the exertion; the back of his neck freezes in the wind while his armoured core sweats.

The route there is steep. The snow breaks through his boots and digs wet grooves into his socks, his feet. And it’s huge. Round stone tower upon round stone tower, bronze, strong. And as the ground flattens out a bit, he sees a figure, at the same time that they see him.

Not a bandit.

Something else.

His nerves jump into life. Not quite as tall as he is; androgynous; black light armour with blood-red patches. He can only see the top half of their distant face, their mouth and jaw hidden by a cowl. He has gotten quite good at reading threats, from stance and expression and the presence of weapons. This person is armed to the teeth. Slim daggers rest at each hip and ankle. An ebony bow rests against their shoulder-blades. His own hands have crept towards his iron axe, but who is he kidding?

They creep forward and slip between the trees to get to him. He looks up at the ruin and sees a handful of bandits with their backs to the valley. The something-else is close, and he can see their eyes. ‘Stranger,’ says they. ‘I mean no harm.’

He blinks. He was not aware of _his_ ability to cause any harm at all. ‘Nor I,’ he croaks out. And he holds out his hand. ‘What brings you here?’

Their gaze is impassive. They take the hand, and repeat the question back to him.

There’s something about them. A quiet menace. He says, ‘I am a Companion,’ and bows just a little. ‘I have been asked here to retrieve an heirloom.’ He tries to swallow his fear but it bubbles up anyway. His voice shakes. ‘My name is Torben.’

‘Ah,’ says the person.

‘And yours?’ he manages.

They glare at him for a full second. And then they turn to the door.

‘I received this mission several weeks ago,’ he says, to get the stranger to look at him again, and because he is a child, and wants to fight it out over who got here first. Never mind that he could never kill this many bandits by himself.

‘And yet you did not act on it until now,’ says the stranger, looking back at him, annoyed.

‘You’re not here for the heirloom,’ he says.

‘Yet we seek the same head,’ says they. ‘Alain Dufont. He leads the bandits here.’ They gesture at the stairways. They show no hint of fear, only a vague intensity, a determination to rise to the challenge. Their gaze doesn’t linger. They’re used to it. Torben thinks he may have seen the armour in a book somewhere; something apocryphal* that he shouldn’t have been reading. ‘If you come with me, it slightly lessens my chance of failure. And significantly lessens yours.’ Their initial wariness has vanished.

‘Only slightly?’ bristles Torben.

They close their eyes again. ‘Allow me to rephrase,’ they say. ‘My name is Luric. I am a... a sellsword. I have been asked here to exact revenge on Dufont.’

His mouth is dry. ‘One of Dufont’s men robbed a necklace from a friend of mine in Whiterun. It should be in their trove here.’

‘And I can rely on you, Tor?’

The shortening is relaxed, friendly. If he closes his eyes he might be able to pretend this person is normal. Pretend he is not about to die. He nods.

‘So be it,’ says Luric.

The stranger fights like they were born doing it. Torben is grateful their paths crossed – there are so many bandits, and he should have updated his gear six months ago. But one thing after another distracted him until at last, with a gash in his thigh the size of Morrowind, Aela put him back on the smaller jobs. This is part of his rehabilitation. It isn’t working.

He knows even as he follows Luric through the ruins that he will never tell anyone about this.

Luric moves with curious grace. They are silent and ever watchful. They show no more of their face by will, but in a tussle close to where, according to their notes, Dufont is dwelling, their cowl is torn clean away. The lower half of Luric’s face is so lined with marks and scars – deep and dark and disfiguring – that Tor starts back. They notice. They turn away to pull the cowl back on as the bandit breathes her last at their feet. Luric pierced her with their slim ebony blade. Torben feels sick.

‘You alright?’ inquires Luric, softly and not at all out of breath.

He nods.

‘Will you follow me, now?’

Torben nods again.

They lead him through creaking passageways, always one step ahead until a corundum spider leaps from the wall and pierces Luric’s calf. They barely cry out. Tor hacks into the contraption with his axe, and has to pull it free as the sparks jump up his arm.

‘You alright?’ he asks, bringing his wrist to his mouth to soothe a burn.

‘I’m fine,’ growls Luric.

Alain Dufont is revelling with his fellow brigands, practically waiting to be picked off. Luric holds Tor back with a firm hand against his chest, and the possible intimacy of it is lost with their eyes still on the bandits. Tor obeys and keeps to the shadows. He watches Luric creep around the room. He jumps when the lever swings and fierce orange bolts topple the bandits.

Luric leaps down and pulls Dufont’s pincushion body back from the flames, working hands into his pockets. And then Luric vanishes into the darkness, Tor’s only sight of them a red blotch between the golden bars on the other side of the room. Luric reappears a moment later, holding out something. There’s just enough firelight to make it glint. Silver.

As Luric comes back to him, Tor feels strange; both grateful, and emasculated.

Luric looks elsewhere and drops the necklace onto his palm, as though they cannot bear to touch him. In the next second, they hold out an iron warhammer with a faint blue sheen.

‘Take it,’ they say gruffly, and Tor does.

Luric looks around to get their bearings. The ruins are so eerie: vague creaks and cranks are to be heard, practically _beneath_ them, and if Tor were not so terrified – not of bandits but of some electric fiend – he might – _might_ – be persuaded to come back, someday, perhaps next Era. Luric looks back at him. ‘You’ve no experience in these, I take it?’ Their voice, as ever, is flat, toneless, and non-judgmental.

Tor shakes his head. And Luric guides the both of them out, silently.

‘Where will you go now?’ asks Tor.

‘Back to my place in the world,’ Luric says, ‘and you back to yours.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * when I use “apocryphal”, it is not to refer to Apocrypha, the realm of Hermaeus Mora, but to apocrypha in a religious context, i.e. dark, lost, unconfirmed, and to some extent forbidden (for example, the New Testament Apocrypha, which includes among other things, the Acts of Paul and Thecla. (pleas,e , some one, come and nerd out about theology w me.))
> 
> updates every Saturday (29th July, 5th August, 12th August, 19th August)
> 
> rating may change (any nsfw stuff will be chapter 4.)


	2. and as i wonder where you are

His shins are bitten by cold. His arms are goose-pimpled. His ears are sore and red.

These symptoms fade as he gets nearer and nearer Whiterun. What does not leave is the sense of agitation, of loneliness. It follows him all the way there. He can’t relax. It’s like Luric is still with him.

It’s when he passes the gate that he realises he has to go back now. Back to how it was before. He rubs his eyes.

Jorrvaskr is warm. He fills the hole inside him with pheasant and mead, and sleeps beside people he cares about.

He does push-ups in the yard, and sit-ups in the living quarters. He lugs damaged weapons to Eorlund, and goes for brief strolls around the city to pick up flowers, but can’t make them into potions to save his life. He should write to Lis.

The warhammer Luric left him with is the best weapon he’s ever had. It builds the muscles in his left arm to use it, which wasn’t happening with his war axe, and it’s powerful. Even if used solely as a clobber, a rod of metal swinging through the air, it’s powerful. But it’s enchanted, and sharp, and piercing. He uses it on bears, bandits, sabre cats.

He’s glad he went to Raldbthar. He’s glad he met Luric. These thoughts creep out at nighttime, and he wants to suppress them, wants to ignore the tiny place Luric has carved out inside him, a pocket of murk and just a few solid facts. _Luric is a better fighter than me. Luric saved my life. Luric has scars across their face._

He should write to Lis.

She beats him to it.

 

_My dear Torben,_

_How are you? The store is still struggling. Although there have been no more attacks_ on _the city, our shipments still run the gauntlet on the way here. Lisbet can hardly afford to pay me, most weeks, but I get by._

_I have made a friend; his name is Kjeld and he is from the mine. He’s quite shy but very nice. I met him when I was going out to meet a shipment – he helped me carry the crates into the shop – not in that way men do because they’re showing off and they think you’re weak, but out of genuine care – he had seen me around before. I introduced myself, and asked him if he should like a drink – for we have too much mead to drink, in the storeroom, although Imedhnain seems to be trying – but he had to get back to work._

_It would be very nice to see you. I have grown quite lonely, and there is no money, and you are the only person I can call on to help the store. Everyone is so proud when I tell them that you are a Companion._

_I’m sure you have much better things to deal with. I gather that there may even be fugitives, some assassins on their way across Skyrim after an attack on their base. But this is just hearsay – there is a woman comes in sometimes, to talk to Lisbet, and she has spoken about it. I don’t know how she knows – I don’t want to know how she knows._

_All my love,_

_Lis_

He really ought to go to her. It’s been months, and longer still since they parted – and he misses her. He misses her.

And she needs him – for what if the store fails, and she is thrown out on the street? A miner cannot support her, and if there are no jobs to be had then she cannot support herself.

He reads the letter again, eyes sticking to the last paragraph. _Fugitives. Assassins_.

He goes to the Bannered Mare with Ria, and swims in mead for a while, talking about Cyrodiil. He has never been. He will never go.

He asks her whether she knows anything about assassins running wild around the province. She says, ‘I should hope not – they destroyed the Sanctuary, did you not know? There was a plot to kill the Emperor, but before anything could come of it, one of their own number betrayed them. The Penitus Oculatus went and vanquished them all. Every last one.’

‘Every last one?’

Ria looks doubtful. ‘Well, I assume so,’ she says. ‘The Oculatus aren’t the type to take prisoners.’

His stomach sinks. ‘And what... how would one go about... recognising them?’

‘The Oculatus?’

‘No, the –‘

‘The Dark Brotherhood. Well, I’m sure if any of them are still around they won’t wear the armour. But it’s black. Black, and red.’

‘And light?’

Ria nods. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ she says. ‘Have you –‘ her face lights up in excitement, while the colour drains from Tor’s – ‘have you seen one?’

‘No,’ he says, ‘but – of course if I did – I would have to report it, wouldn’t I.’

‘Yeah,’ says Ria, warily. ‘Wait, do you mean an assassin, or a ghost?’

‘A ghost,’ says Tor, and he drinks the last of his mead and steps off his stool.

_Luric was a better fighter than me. Luric saved my life. Luric had scars across their face._

_Luric was a Dark Brotherhood assassin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from the song ‘I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry’ which has been performed by Hank Williams, Johnny Cash etc. The full verse is ‘The silence of a falling star / lights up a purple sky / and as I wonder where you are / I’m so lonesome I could cry’.
> 
> (bear with me on the Dark Brotherhood divergence.)
> 
> updates every Saturday.


	3. baby it's cold outside

‘There is someone here to see you, Tor,’ Aela comes to tell him, two months after his adventure at Raldbthar.

There is never anyone here to see him. Fear pulls into his stomach – Lis.

But it isn’t Lis. It has nothing to do with Lis.

It’s Luric.

And they look _terrible_.

Tor lets the door fall shut behind him. Hurt presses against the scars across Luric’s exposed jaw. It is Tor’s fault – he has this impulse, to hide this, hide Luric, from the eyes of the world and of the Companions.

_Luric is alive._

_Luric is a better fighter than me. Luric saved my life. Luric has scars across their face._

_Luric is/was a Dark Brotherhood assassin._

_Luric is not supposed to be here_.

‘Hello,’ says Tor.

Luric nods.

‘Are you alright?’

 _Obviously_ they’re not.

Luric stares up at Tor. Their eyes have this awful darkness to them. Gaunt – that’s the word. Luric looks gaunt.

They shake their head.

‘Hey,’ says Tor, stepping down. ‘What can I do?’

Luric is very stiff and awkward. They sit up on the wall and Tor follows.

‘I need a place to stay,’ their voice rough and rushing.

‘Oh,’ says Tor. ‘Well – I’m sure you can find something.’

‘With you,’ Luric says. ‘I need a place to stay, with you.’

Tor swallows. ‘Whatever you need,’ he says. ‘I live at – at Jorrvaskr so – you could become a Companion, or. There’s the Mare.’

‘Is there a Bosmer woman here, often?’ Luric asks.

‘Not apart from Desthia,’ says Tor. Luric turns their head sharply. ‘Desthia? She’s the Thane.’

‘The Thane,’ Luric breathes deeply. ‘Yes.’

‘She owns that house,’ says Tor, pointing. ‘I haven’t seen her in an age. I don’t know anything about her – no one talks about her at Jorrvaskr – she didn’t want to join.’

‘Have you ever spoken to her?’ asks Luric.

Tor shakes his head. Luric is visibly relieved. ‘They tried to recruit her a while ago,’ he says, ‘before I came here. I don’t know why she was made Thane.’

‘She killed a dragon,’ says Luric.

‘That was her?’

Luric’s eyes are still on Breezehome. They nod. ‘I’m not in danger,’ they say, ‘as long as I’m with you.’

Tor has no idea how to respond to this.

‘You can – you can say no,’ says Luric haltingly –

‘No,’ says Tor. ‘No, I’m happy. To help. I would not have survived Raldbthar without you.’ He can tell Luric wants to say, _No, you wouldn’t have_ , but they do not.

They smile at him.

* * *

Luric becomes a Companion. They wear scaled armour like Tor, but with a loose shirt and leggings beneath to cover any bare skin. Tor is the one whose job it becomes to _initiate_ Luric, when in fact it’s more the other way around. Luric saves him each and every time.

They’re two weeks in and dozing against each other in a nameless cave. It’s sweltering and stinks of dead bear. But they’re so tired.

He only notices the warmth of Luric’s body when it’s gone.

‘What is it?’

‘Can you hear that?’ they whisper.

Tor lies back, and pricks his ears. Footfalls are pounding outside and he can smell smoke.

‘We can’t stay here,’ says Luric, their countenance alert and tense. ‘We have to leave.’

‘Wait,’ Tor sighs. ‘Why? Surely it’s safer down here?’

Luric shakes their head. ‘Come,’ they say, and Tor stands to follow them.

It’s early morning outside. The sunlight strikes Tor’s face, and Luric looks at him for a long moment, entranced. And then the both of them look around, and find themselves in the midst of a stampeding auburn force.

Soldiers.

Imperial soldiers.

‘Luric,’ hisses Tor, dragging them down with him against a rock. ‘What do we do?’

Luric looks at him. They breathe deeply. ‘It’s Whiterun,’ they say, and turn their head to peer around the rock. ‘Yep. It’s Whiterun. They’re – they’re – ... it’s going to burn,’ they finish tonelessly.

Tor’s stomach has filled with jagged rocks. He curves around Luric, extending a hand to the small of their back. Luric stiffens. Tor looks ahead at the city. The soldiers are sweeping up to the city walls, and Tor can see now the dull blue of the Stormcloaks, all around. And then it blurs. Everything blurs.

His friends are in there. His job is in there.

But Luric’s here. And Lis is in Markarth.

And his friends will be fine.

They watch Whiterun burn together.

* * *

 Something new is bothering Luric. They have torn the sleeves from their forearms to make into a sort of kerchief, tying it around their face to hide the scars. Tor doesn’t know what’s going on and he can’t ask.

There are Imperial soldiers all around the city now, making regular patrols, guarding the marketplace. Heimskr has disappeared. Tor was never very pious in the first place, but the Wind District feels empty without him, and the part of his mind where the message of Talos’ love used to thrive, a background comfort, is silent.

His best friend is an assassin, so really, everything is shades of grey.

Luric stops sleeping. They get that gaunt look again. Tor is training with them one day in the yard when a clumsy hit to Luric’s elbow, with his steel shield, actually hits. He jerks back instinctively. Luric just sags.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and Luric shakes their head.

‘We’re training,’ says Luric weakly. ‘You’re supposed to try and hurt me.’ They rub at their elbow, uncomfortable.

‘What is it?’ asks Tor, helplessly.

Luric looks at him, properly looks at him.

‘I told you I would help,’ says Tor. ‘I stayed out of the city with you. You can trust me.’

Luric swallows. ‘Alright,’ they say. ‘It’s. It’s about the Dragonborn. Is there somewhere we can go – ?’

Tor nods. ‘Where do you want to go?’

And Luric just looks at him, as helpless as Tor feels, and says, ‘Anywhere.’

* * *

Tor tells Aela that he’s heading to Markarth to see his sister. She can’t fault him. She gives him a very short hug and presses a coin purse into his hand, enough to cover the journey if it comes to that. Luric follows like a shadow.

As they go further west into solid Imperial territory, there are fewer soldiers. Clumps of them form around the Forsworn hideouts, but for the most part Luric steers him away, and it can’t be until Karthwasten that they speak more than a few sentences.

Their hasty departure means Tor scarcely has two hundred Septims to call his own. He finds himself pulled along by Luric, talking about this as some sort of absolution, into the Sanuarach mine to force the sellswords out.

It ends badly. Luric uncurls Atar’s impressive shield from his dead hands, and the two of them have just killed four mercenaries sent by the _Silver-Blood_ family. The most powerful family in Markarth.

_Lis._

‘Hey,’ says Luric, and Tor looks at them, thinking, _Who are you? What have you done to me?_

‘Hey, _breathe_ ,’ says Luric.

And it’s the only comfort Tor can find anymore, the warmth of Luric’s hands on his shoulders, the press of their bodies together, the way their fingers twine as they head back up into the daylight, covered in blood.

Ainethach asks them what he can do, and Tor asks him to give up his house for the night. So he goes to stay with Enmon and they are left alone in Karthwasten Hall, warm and comfortable. Luric takes off their kerchief.

Tor is still shaking.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks roughly, as the agitation claws at him – _I have just come halfway across the province with you, for what?_ – and Luric stares, shocked.

They swallow and let the wooden spoon slide down the pan into the soup. ‘It’s the soldiers,’ they say. ‘The Imperial soldiers.’

‘What about them?’ asks Tor dumbly.

Luric comes to sit beside him, twisting their hands together. ‘You know, don’t you,’ they say in a low voice. ‘Surely you know.’

Tor nods.

‘Everyone thinks – that we are all of us dead,’ says Luric, ‘after – after the Emperor. But I – I’m still alive. I escaped. But no one knows that but you.’

Tor swallows. ‘And Desthia?’

‘She is the Listener,’ says Luric on an exhale. ‘She was in the Brotherhood too. She was the one who – who betrayed us.’ Luric looks at him and says, ‘I can’t believe I’m feeling guilty about it now. With you. I –‘

‘Desthia – was an assassin? The Dragonborn? And she betrayed you?’

Luric nods. ‘She thinks I’m dead,’ they murmur. ‘And the Imperial soldiers think so, too – the whole sanctuary, it was – it was _burned_ –‘ Luric shivers. ‘But they would know my face.’

‘I thought that was the point of the cowl,’ says Tor.

‘I was an outlaw before I joined the Brotherhood,’ says Luric. ‘And I had no cowl before then. Everything else about me was described, so they knew it was me. The cowl was – was for myself – so I wouldn’t have to see. I could pretend no one else did. But you did.’ Luric looks up at him sharply. ‘At Raldbthar.’

Tor nods. ‘Where are they from?’

Luric looks back down at the floor. ‘I’m so sorry for bringing you into this,’ they say. ‘I shouldn’t have done it – you have – you have a life beyond me – and –‘

Tor can’t speak. Everything Luric is saying is true and terrible.

‘You’re my only friend,’ Luric whispers. ‘I couldn’t bear going it alone.’

‘I understand,’ says Tor, because he does. The last time he was here was a year ago, heading along this path in worn clothes, only protection a thick vest beneath and a shiv he found outside Cidhna Mine in the middle of the night when the guards were asleep. He had walked to Whiterun and worn soles into his boots. Washed in Lake Ilinalta. Slept in trees. And he had been totally, utterly alone.

‘Even the most powerful of us feel fear,’ he says, and succumbs to an urge to touch Luric’s face. The scarred skin is hard and glabrous, covering the area where a beard might otherwise grow, if Luric is a man.

Luric leans into his fingers, and Tor finds his whole palm bent back over his wrist.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We’re safe, here. We can sleep.’

Luric looks at him and nods.


	4. tainted love / timeo et amo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if ur susceptible to anxiety, there is some mention of it here - nothing explicit but enough to indicate that Torben is suffering from increased anxiety and that Luric has grappled with it for some time. 
> 
> the scene in Candlehearth Hall, where Luric describes the screaming, tiny something inside him, is to some extent modeled on a scene from Weekend (2011) where Tom Cullen's character, Russell, describes his "indigestion" when out in public. Russell is self-conscious and reserved about being gay while Chris New's character Glen is loud and unapologetic - it's a very good film and the indigestion bit was my favourite scene, I think mainly because normal people don't talk using words from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual.

Daybreak in Karthwasten, and they’re curled together, Luric at his back.

The impulse is sudden and comes as soon as Tor realises they’re pressed together _everywhere_ – and he can’t account for it. But he shifts his hips, just a little. And again. And again.

‘Huh?’

It’s Luric, drawing away from him, and the rest of Tor’s brain switches on.

‘Hey,’ he says.

‘Hey.’

For a long moment they just lie there, on their backs, looking into the rafters.

‘After last night,’ says Luric, ‘I want you to know that – that you can leave this, if you want.’

‘I thought everything was fine,’ he says.

‘Yes, but –‘

‘You’ve got the kerchief,’ he says. ‘You’re with a Companion. You’re a Companion. You’re in normal armour. We’re in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Desthia,’ says Luric. ‘If she sees me, that’s it. She’s on the Imperial side. She infiltrated – us – the Brotherhood – and she knows my face, without the kerchief – she’d know me from a mile away.’

Tor swallows. ‘I’m sure she can’t go anywhere without people noticing her.’

Luric scoffs. ‘She can go anywhere she likes.’

‘Does she know for sure you’re alive?’

Luric’s face twists. ‘She doesn’t know for sure that I’m dead. Everyone... Everyone burned.’

‘Luric, listen –‘

‘This isn’t just about Raldbthar anymore, is it?’ _Promise me._

_Luric used to be a Dark Brotherhood assassin. Luric is the best fighter I have ever seen. I care about Luric. I need Luric – I –_

‘No,’ says Tor, not sure whether it’s the right thing to say or not, but it’s true. ‘No, it isn’t.’

‘You’re with me?’

‘I’m with you.’

* * *

‘I love the Reach,’ says Luric, in a rare, relaxed voice. They pop a juniper berry into their mouth. Tor watches the motion. Luric meets his eyes, their own bright. They tug the kerchief back up and look away.

‘I grew up here,’ says Torben.

Luric stills. ‘Oh?’

‘Me and my sister,’ he says, swallowing. ‘In Markarth. And you?’

‘High Rock,’ they say. ‘Starnhelm. And when I came here – across the mountains – I was here, in the Reach. And I was free.’

And the relaxed tone is gone, because however Tor feels about Luric, and however Luric feels about Tor, they can’t say anything else. And the city nears.

‘Where is there to stay, in Markarth?’ Luric asks.

‘There’s the Silver-Blood Inn,’ Tor says, and knows Luric is feeling the same anxiety. ‘Yep. The people who sent the mercenaries to Karthwasten. Hopefully they don’t know it was us. I don’t think Ainethach would tell them. Other than that, it’s just various... places.’

‘Like where?’

‘The Warrens, for one,’ says Tor. He takes a deep breath. ‘Where I grew up.’

Luric rubs at their eyes.

‘It’s like – like the Ratway in Riften. Or the Waterfront in the Imperial City. Y’know? ... Poor.’

‘Were you orphans? You and Lis?’

Tor shakes his head. ‘We are now, but – that’s a different story.’

‘I was an orphan,’ says Luric.

‘What happened?’

‘The Great War.’

* * *

It’s Torben’s fault, in the end.

His clothes are ratty and worn, and he wants to see Lis. So he pops into Arnleif’s while Luric waits outside.

It’s as dingy and as lonely as ever, the counters too big for it, the people afterthoughts. Lis is sweeping in the corner, her blonde hair plaited from high up her scalp and as out of the way as she can get it. Seeing her is like getting a bellyful of warm stew all at once. Sustaining. He sweeps her up in his arms and clutches her fiercely, not even realising how worried he’s been and how relieved he is that all is well. She squeals and cries and hugs him, and bids him sit with her to talk.

She tells him about Kjeld. Kjeld is dark and shy and lovely, and Lis adores him, and he adores Lis. And Torben feels strange, like he should be annoyed, or protective, or _something_ , but all he can think is _Luric, can I tell her about Luric? Luric, Luric, Luric_ and he knows he can’t, knows he will never tell anyone about Luric, not _properly_. And he’s glad Lis has found a measure of happiness. She says something about coming to Whiterun – especially in the future when things are more peaceful – perhaps with Kjeld – and he nods, he agrees, humours. He doesn’t know what they can do, when they do come to Whiterun. The future is obscured in a strange, anxious fog.

They’re at the bottom of a second bottle of mead each when the doors to the shop open, and a woman comes in. She’s Bosmer, broad-shouldered and muscular in a way that intimidates despite her shortness. Her golden eyes move around the room before alighting on Lisbet, who heretofore has been grumbling around at the counter. And she approaches. The lighting reveals fantastically well-made dragonscale armour, pale across her body so that she looks rather like a piece of driftwood on fire at one end. Bright red war paint is smeared across her face and her light brown hair is cut just below her ears.

Every hair on Torben’s body stands on end.

Desthia hasn’t looked his way, and Lis is still murmuring to him, asking if he wants a third bottle of mead, and he gently nudges away her hand and says, ‘You should get back to work. I’ll see you later.’ It’s a lie and he feels like garbage, but _Luric, Luric, Luric_.

He passes towards the door and feels the Dragonborn’s eyes on him, briefly, and he _hates_ her. And then he’s opening the door and going out into the rain, and looking around and there’s no Luric, not here not anywhere.

Had she seen them? On her way in? What could have happened? Tor didn’t hear a commotion, but what if she saw Luric and alerted the guards, or saw Luric and threatened them – or disposed of them somewhere quiet? Torben’s heart is racing. And he’s thinking of where Luric could be, where Luric would feel _safe_.

So he heads towards the Warrens.

Luric is in the room at the end, braced for an attack by the doors and wielding both sleek daggers. Tor keeps his distance before Luric recognises him, and then they’re huddled there together in the dirt. He feels disgusting. He hasn’t had to live like this in so long, and Luric is seeing it, Luric is seeing what his life used to be like. And Tor is ashamed.

‘I avoid coming here,’ he said, ‘because of this.’

Luric nods stiffly.

‘Did she see you?’

Luric exhales. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

Luric says, ‘Yes,’ and this is it, isn’t it?

* * *

The two of them leave immediately. The tangy smell of Juniper hangs in the air as they clamber through the mountains, the ground cold and harsh. It’s getting on to summer now, over in Whiterun. And just like that Tor is panicking, feeling the storm of it leaping through his bones. And the world goes dark.

Luric’s there, holding him. ‘Hey,’ they say.

Tor clutches at their arm. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine. You’re tired.’

* * *

Tor pays a carriage to take them to Windhelm, which is probably the least hospitable place for elves and Imperials alike. He and Luric jolt around in the back until finally, in the dead of night, Torben pulls them close with one arm – Luric warm and pliable and small, somehow – and digs the other through the slat. Luric sinks into Tor’s shoulder with their lips against his collarbone, breaths deep and relaxed. But they’re awake. They’re both awake. Tor pulls Luric closer, clenches his fingers into Luric’s waist.

‘I’m with you,’ he whispers.

* * *

Candlehearth Hall, where Tor stayed the night before he went to Raldbthar. It’s been four months now, the last five weeks spent on the road. Tor hopes they can stay here awhile. He has skills. He can fight and brew and sell. But he looks at Luric and thinks that a world where they can settle down – lose the driving terror inside like a hot poker – has yet to exist. Surely in this one something has gone wrong.

It’s their second night and Luric is shaking at the end of the bed, in their baggy, layered nightclothes and a hat over their jaw-length auburn hair. Tor doesn’t know what’s brought it on. He doesn’t know if anything in particular brings it on, or if this is just Luric, a shell of skin and bone and bright, cruel eyes with _this_ underneath, this...

Luric turns to him. ‘It’s as though there’s something tiny, screaming inside me. Something small and weak and sad. Alive.’ They shudder. Bitterly, ‘It never goes away. It’s always there. And every time something little happens – the tiniest thing – it’s like it jumps up my throat and I can’t breathe, and.’ Luric inhales sharply. ‘But it’s always there like it’s waiting. I can’t stop thinking, I can’t. I can’t _stop_.’ And their voice is choked and broken and Tor is crawling along the bed to wrap his arms around Luric, Luric sinking back, falling.

‘It’s just this tiny scream,’ Luric says, gaspingly, ‘inside me, all the time. This tension in my chest. And it... it’s this other thing. Like a second mind? That never _stops_ , it doesn’t _stop_ , I just want –‘ Luric gasps and clutches at Torben’s hand. ‘I just want it to stop. I just want it to be over.’

Tor pulls Luric back into his arms and cradles them. He doesn’t know how to help. He can’t remember feeling calm. Adding mead to the mix won’t make any of this better.

He remembers songs Lis used to sing to him, dark nights in the Warrens. And the tunes are still in his head, rusty and long unused, seldom thought of. But one comes out of his mouth sure and soft and gentle and it’s like walking a familiar path, seeing a familiar face, it’s like coming home.

 ‘Which Thane?’ murmurs Luric, when it’s over.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Which Thane’s housecarl was it?’

‘It’s just a story,’ says Tor. ‘Just a song.’

Luric leans back into him. ‘It’s nice,’ they say. ‘Strange, and scary. But nice.’

‘I always thought so,’ said Tor, ‘but with this hint to it, of...’ he swallows. ‘The dangers of love.’

‘Yes,’ says Luric. ‘Very dangerous indeed.’ They’re slumping back and Tor arranges them both into a proper position so they don’t slide off the bed. ‘Tor?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Have you ever been in love?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Tor, truthfully. ‘Maybe?’

‘I think I am,’ says Luric.

‘Yeah?’

Luric snuggles backwards so their back is against Tor’s front, and their legs tuck together. Tor pulls his hips back a bit and Luric follows. Tor gulps. ‘Me too,’ he says, whispering it, a quaking caress. He moves up his hand to trail along Luric’s side, the dip at Luric’s waist before the rise of their hips, the muscle. He moves his hand back down, over Luric’s stomach and up, up, rolling Luric’s nipples between his fingertips. Luric shivers. Tor nips at Luric’s neck.

He nudges his hips against Luric’s and feels Luric part their legs, drawing one back around his to lock him in place. Luric grinds against him and Tor’s grip slackens as he gasps and moans. And then Luric’s hand is there, beneath his smalls, touching him, clumsy, perfect pressure that’s too much on the surface but not enough, deep inside, that ache in Tor’s chest that needs Luric, needs them to breathe.

Luric turns suddenly to look at Tor, eyes burning, and then they’re on top of him and both of them have lost their trousers. It’s dark, so dark, Tor can only feel, feel the tickle of hair and the heat, the pressure, slickness and closeness and it’s too much, too much, Luric’s high breaths above him and his own stilting cries. He grips at Luric’s hips, pulls them closer, bucks up into them so they bounce a little, grinning, crying.

And then he realises they haven’t even kissed.

‘Wait,’ he gasps, and Luric stills immediately.

It’s so awkward to say it, just say it, _kiss me_ , even though they’re both touching each other with abandon already, even though Tor’s about to have his first orgasm with another person ever. Tor just huffs out ragged, embarrassed breaths, fires starting all over his body.

Luric leans down and kisses him and puts them all out. Their lips are dry and chapped and rough, and it’s hot, bruising, even when Luric licks into his mouth and drags moans from Tor’s throat. Tor strokes at Luric’s jaw, tugs at their hair. Something about it has Luric juddering against him, a hot rush of fire shooting through Tor as Luric groans and quickens the pace. Something in Luric’s eyes as they break apart makes Tor think Luric might hurt him, really hurt him – but this just sends more sparks across his body, and Luric doesn’t, doesn’t choke him or pull his hair or dig in their nails. Holds him. Slows down.

Kisses him tenderly and deeply, moves slowly and softly and wetly until they’re burying their face in Tor’s neck and coming. Tor can feel all the little aftershocks and it’s something amazing, something he wants to turn into a map, a country, a painting. Art.

He kisses Luric all over their face, everywhere he can reach, forehead and side of nose and eyes and mouth and scarred jaw – especially scarred jaw – sucks a welt into the skin under Luric’s ear, bites at the skin where blood rushes just beneath the surface and Luric’s pulse is all he can hear. And Tor floats away like that, an extended plateau until he’s crashing, falling, but also the best he’s ever felt, and he comes.


End file.
